


you're like my coffee: hot and bitter

by dizzydancing



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:37:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7097164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzydancing/pseuds/dizzydancing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why did you write 'you should’ve been sent off against Barca' on my cup?"</p><p>David is a terrible (terribly attractive) barista, and Iker is a regular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're like my coffee: hot and bitter

Iker's first thought is that he doesn't even  _like_  coffee, but Sergio had heard from his cousin, who had heard from his best friend or maybe coworker, who had heard from his gardener or maybe driver, who had heard from his daughter or son, that Cesc’s Café was the best thing to happen to Madrid since Iker’s birth. Or something like that. It’s hard to keep track of Sergio’s circle of connections.

 

So, here he is, appraising his competition and standing in front of a café so small he nearly missed it.

 

There’s something comforting about the brick building, with its barely concealed cracks and its distinct smell of fresh paint and cocoa, nestled between a bookstore and a flower shop. Flowerpots hang from the balcony above: bright, red flowers that shake in the wind excitedly. The entire array is a little too cute, a little too silly, and Iker feels like it’s not appropriate for him to be here without flowers in his hair or something else ridiculous.

 

Still, he’s oddly charmed, so he takes a step inside. He barely registers the soft light or the couches by the fireplace; his eyes immediately snap to the massive Barça flag covering half a wall and threatening to blind him.

 

“Hey, can I get you anything?” A bored voice interrupts Iker’s thoughts. He turns around and sees a man with black hair and sharp, dark eyes behind the counter. Elbows propped up, the employee is resting his head on his palms, and his face just screams, _I’m ready to kill someone._

 

He seems like the kind of person who drinks black coffee with no sugar.

 

“Sorry, what?” Iker replies instead, like an idiot. He’s used to maintaining his composure, knows how to be stoic when faced with criticism better than anything else, but something about the barista and his cool, collected confidence throws Iker off kilter.

 

“It’s a coffee shop,” the barista informs him curtly. “Would you like some coffee?” He says the second part in the same disbelieving way Iker shouts at his teammates, _Would you all like to get dressed and hurry the fuck up?_

 

“Black, small, no sugar or cream or anything else please,” Iker says before he can change his mind. He steps up to the counter to pay. David – and thank God he has a nametag because Iker can’t keep calling him Brooding Barista Guy in his mind – rolls up his sleeves. Iker tries not to stare but he can’t help but notice the taught muscles in David’s arms, the pale expanse of skin when his shirt rides up, the way his ass looks when he bends over to open some boxes –

 

Iker averts his gaze and starts to obsessively reorganize his wallet.

 

“Here’s your coffee.” David finally reappears and musters up the fakest smile Iker has seen since the Mourinho days. It makes him bite his lip to repress the smile threatening to creep up on his face. “Have a nice day.”

 

He takes a gulp of his coffee and nearly spits it out. It’s disgusting, vile, and excruciatingly bitter. Iker’s mouth burns from the sting of heat, and he fumes to himself, clenching a fist. The Barça flag suddenly looks even uglier than usual.

 

David smirks, eyes darkening, devastatingly intense. He looks a little dangerous. Iker wants to hate him, but then David smiles and it’s all soft lips and bright teeth and crinkles around eyes and a pink tongue curled upwards and – and, Iker’s heart should not be beating this fast because he’s not standing in a goal or presenting himself in front of a crowd.

 

The coffee is dumped into the sink in Iker’s home, and Iker is about to recycle the paper cup when his eyes catch the words scrawled on the side.

 

“You should’ve been sent off against Barça,” it says. Perfect grammar and neat handwriting. Iker isn’t sure why he’s surprised David isn’t sloppy.

 

He wasn’t going to go back because he doesn’t even _like_ coffee and Sergio is terrible and so is David, but he can’t just leave it at that, right?

 

~~~

 

“Why did you write ‘you should’ve been sent off against Barça’ on my cup?”

 

“Good morning to you as well!”

 

“You – you’re not David.”

 

“Excellent detective skills,” Not David replies with an alarming amount of sincerity. He has dark hair as well, but his facial features are softer and his eyes are lighter. There’s an aura of innocence around him, and Iker relaxes.

 

“I just wanted to ask David a question, didn’t mean to bother you.” Iker hates how disappointed he sounds. “I can come back later.”

 

“No, no, sit down.” Not David rakes his eyes over Iker’s body, not so subtly checking him out. Then, his eyes quickly go back up to Iker’s face, and he twists around, hollering at a room in the back, “David Villa, get your ass in here! A certain Madridista is here to see you.” He wrinkles his nose right as he says “Madridista,” and Iker rolls his eyes.

 

There’s some shuffling and shoving before the sound of fighting dissolves into the sound of hushed whispers. If Iker strains his ears, he can make out some fragments.

 

“… Cesc… moron…”

 

“… someone… listen… crush”

 

“… fuck off… don’t… assumptions…”

 

And then, quite clearly and loudly: “Who the hell would ask for David? I’ve been friends with him forever, and I still pretend I don’t know him.” “Thanks for the support, Geri – hey, don’t shove me!”

 

After some more muffled arguing and very clear death threats, David finally stands in front of him. He’s wearing the same uniform and looking peeved about Iker’s presence, yet he somehow looks even better than the first time.

 

He must remember that he’s in a professional setting, so David straightens his back and steps behind the counter, turning his back against Iker.

 

“Same as last time?” David asks. Before Iker can reply, he starts rummaging around and working. He eventually sets a cup of black coffee – maybe Iker should’ve opened his mouth to protest – on the counter. Iker sips a little and immediately hates himself because it’s even worse than he remembered.

 

“Sorry about Cesc,” David says, finally breaking the silence. “He’s an idiot. A massive one.”

 

Iker’s eyes flick up to the Cesc’s Café sign above the menu. “Do you really want to bad mouth your boss?”

 

“Fuck him. Besides, what is he going to do? Make me run laps? Cut me from the team?” David says easily. He talks about the football aspect – the main aspect – of Iker’s life with no hero worship in his eyes, stumble in his words, or hesitation in his shaking hands. He speaks about Iker’s job casually, without reservation, the same way he seems to discuss anything: biting and sarcastic. It’s oddly refreshing.

 

Body moving without his brain’s permission, Iker inches forward and gives David a small smile, exercising some muscles he forgot existed. Something shifts in David; a flicker of surprise flits across his eyes. His lips twist, and his eyebrows furrow. He looks softer, more approachable. Gradually, Iker feels a little bolder, a little more reckless.

 

He tries to keep his voice neutral, but it comes out rougher than intended when he leans in, enough to see the different shades in David’s eyes, and whispers, “What would he do if I told on you?”

 

Iker feels childish and slightly mortified, but David seems amused.

 

“Are you talking about the words I wrote on your cup? I think Cesc might give me a raise. Die-hard culé and all that.”

 

“And you?” Iker’s heart spikes.

 

“I’m not exactly a Barça fan, sort of but also not really.” David trails off. He sounds like he’s about to say something reassuring. “I just don’t like you very much.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Sorry,” David tells him, not bothering to sound apologetic at all. Iker rolls his eyes and feels weirdly found.

 

“Work on your insults,” Iker demands, turning the cup around until the new handwritten note faces David. “I’ve heard a lot of criticism. If you want to impress me, use some creativity.”

 

“You’re giving me permission to insult you?” There’s a glint in David’s eyes. He looks surprised, and Iker figures he’s pleased someone challenged him.

 

“Do your worst – I mean, best.”

 

~~~

 

As it turns out, David isn’t actually as imposing as he pretends to be.

 

In the mornings, his hair is always rumpled and soft. Bumping into everything, David steps into the café with creases in his clothes and bleary eyes, simultaneously looking like a wreck and the most beautiful person in the world. Iker muses on how he looks right after rolling out of bed, wonders – if the lines around David’s eyes exist in the morning light, if his hair sticks out in every direction or flattens, if he looks forward to meeting Iker.

 

David scowls at everyone but usually reserves a nod for Iker. Ignoring the stir in his chest, Iker returns the nod and drinks his increasingly nauseating coffee.

 

During the afternoons, his words are fast, his movements are rash, and his hands are reckless. David insults everything under the sun and asks Iker about his day. Iker rolls his eyes a lot and talks about stupid things he aches to mention during training: the homeless man he passes every day, the new sneakers he bought Martin, and the music he has been listening to. At training, he’s the captain: noble and unwavering. At the café, he’s something else entirely.

 

It’s the nights though that Iker really treasures. At night, David’s more open, more vulnerable. There’s a glow in his eyes – a faraway look, like he’s giving himself to Iker, piece-by-piece showing Iker glimpses of his mind.

 

The insults, of course, aren’t clever or creative. At some point, David starts to half-ass them, and Iker feels tempted to say, _hey, I would still come here if we stopped this little game._

 

(“… That doesn’t rhyme with Ronaldo.”

 

“Who cares? I wrote you a poem.”

 

“I’m pretty sure this word doesn’t exist.”

 

“You’re a hard man to woo, Casillas.”)

 

(“5-0 written all over my cup? I thought you said you planned on being creative.”

 

“I wrote it five times. Ha, get it?”)

 

(“I – I’m offended, and I don’t even know what this is.”

 

“It’s a drawing of you.”

 

“It’s a drawing of an old man with his hair falling out.”

 

“Yeah, exactly.”)

 

David’s insults are rather empty, and he knows Iker only pretends to be offended. Iker always comes back, and David always has his favorite drink – black, small, no sugars – ready to go. There’s not really any point to their relationship except – except, Iker’s feet wander to the small brick building against his will, his sweaty palms are inexplicably drawn to rose-adorned door handles, and his heart bruises, burns, beats, breathes, rises, falls – falls for David. He’s falling, heart first and head later.

 

It’s a strange companionship.

 

~~~

 

As it turns out, the media is actually sort of helpful sometimes. (Iker refuses to ever say that again.)

 

Hands fumbling everywhere, Iker is searching for the CD he had promised to give David (“Who even has CDs these days? Iker, you’re fucking ancient.) when he’s bombarded. Three surly looking, buff guys with massive cameras seem to materialize from thin air. A microphone is shoved under his nose, and Iker isn’t sure if it’s one of the camera guys or someone else because his senses are overwhelmed by the stench of sweat and sight of large muscles blocking his path.

 

“Casillas, what are your comments on Neymar’s transfer to Barcelona?”

 

“Is there any truth to the reports on a feud between you and Mourinho?”

 

“When do you plan on retiring?”

 

Iker can barely think; he just sputters a few hopefully neutral words and shoves his way through the mess. Beads of sweat have formed on his forehead, and some journalists keep pressing, sensing that their intimidation is taking a toll on Iker.

 

He does the only thing he can possibly do: Run to the café and pray that David is there. Cesc would readily use Iker as a shield, and God knows what David’s tall friend (Geri, was it?) would do.

 

David’s eyes widen when he sees Iker at the door, and Iker has only one split second to think about how much he looks like a crazed person running from a stampede before he slams the door shot.

 

David locks the door shut, and without letting Iker say a word, he’s suddenly pressed up against him, soft touches and heat uniting them, binding them. _I’m fine_ , Iker tries to say because he is, really, he’s used to this, but it’s hard to protest when David is holding him like it’s his only mission in life. It’s hard to protest when David is molding their bodies together.

 

“Thanks,” Iker says softly after they finally break apart.

 

“Yeah.” David pauses. “You good?”

 

“It’s fine. I don’t know why I acted like there were a thousand guys chasing me.”

 

“Maybe you just really wanted to see me,” David jokes.

 

“Maybe,” Iker replies. He’s not joking.

 

~~~

 

Because even Iker Casillas needs help getting his shit together, he drives to Sara’s house.

 

“I didn’t expect to see you so early.” Sara’s holding Martin and making faces at the half-asleep boy. Iker’s not sure if she’s talking to him or his son.

 

“He missed you,” Iker says softly. _I missed you_ , he wishes he could say. He holds his tongue (five months too late).

 

Sara hesitates and eyes him. With her pursed lips and messy hair lazily spilling over her shoulder, she looks beautiful. She looks eternal too, but Iker knows she isn’t. (He’d like to think he knows better now.)

 

“I missed you too,” she finally tells him softly, and then, she’s right next to him, hugging Iker with one arm and holding Martin with the other.

 

She pulls back quickly (far too quickly). “And I miss seeing you happy,” she says, no hesitation in her voice this time. Her eyes are drawn away from his eyes (his tired, tired eyes) to something in the corner: a newspaper. Iker picks it up with shaking hands. It’s a picture of him and David. He didn’t even realize it was possible to look so light, so at ease.

 

~~~

 

“Willyougooutwithme?”

 

“What the hell did you just say?”

 

“Will you… will you –“

 

“Yes. God yes. I just wanted to hear it again.”

 

~~~

 

It’s so easy to forget that David originally intimidated him.

 

They’re lying together, resting on their sides and facing each other, on David’s messy bed. It’s the closest thing to heaven Iker has ever experienced, even closer than the Bernabeu.

 

“Seriously, the coffee shop was your idea?” Iker’s going to need him to repeat his words.

 

“Café, Iker. Café,” David emphasizes.

 

“Just – why?” Iker replies, devoid of eloquence. He probably has the most ridiculous, dopey look on his face. It’s hard to care.

 

“I made Cesc name the café after himself because well…” The tips of David’s ears are tinged pink with embarrassment.

 

Iker kicks him under the covers.

 

“Look, I like black coffee, alright? I wanted to create, like, a quiet place where you can settle down and enjoy the taste and smell of cocoa. Just drink your coffee quietly and mind your own damn business, right? A place that’s easy to miss, but once you come in, you can’t help but come back. Hence, the oak, hardwood, dim light, couches and shit.”

 

“That was beautiful, inspiring,” Iker deadpans. He’s only a little endeared. Only a bit, he swears.

 

David kicks him under the covers in retaliation, and okay, Iker expected that.

 

“Too bad I can’t deal with customers.”

 

“Too bad.” He wants to remark _you made a good impression on me_ , but the words get stuck in his throat.

 

“I try though.”

 

“David Villa is a big softie,” Iker teases him. He can’t help it – being a little shit – honestly; it’s just that something about the way David scrunches up his nose and scowls, jutting out his lower lip just slightly while demanding to be taken seriously, which brings out the child in Iker.

 

“Christ, Iker. Please kindly shut up.” David’s hair is matted where Iker ran his fingers through it. Tuffs of black hair stick out on the sides, and Iker’s heart swells with an inexplicable feeling. His mouth feels dry and parched, the same way he feels when the signs of an opponent’s counter attack begin to flash before his eyes. There’s a realization sneaking up on him, prickling his skin and firing at his defenses. Iker lets it – whatever _it_ is – crawl through his chest, lets it expand and bloom. He welcomes it, welcomes early morning half conversations in bed and late night strolls in the park. He lets his hackles fall, setting down his gloves for once.

 

And – Oh. Fucking hell, Iker’s in love with a disgruntled cat named David Villa.

 

“Wait, why the Barça flag? You decorated the place,” he suddenly says because he’s pretty sure that as captain of Real Madrid, he’s not supposed to fall for a culé. “I thought you said –“

 

“It’s Madrid, home of people who hate Barcelona the most. I like pissing people off.” David shrugs. He yawns, stretching out his neck, and Iker is briefly distracted.

 

“Wait, that’s it?” Iker feels dumbfounded because it can’t actually be that simple, but David _would_ do something so stupidly reckless.

 

“What did you expect?” David’s the one teasing him this time. “Did you think I was a secret spy, hired by Bartomeu to go undercover in a coffee shop and seduce the Real Madrid captain?”

 

“Pity,” Iker responds sarcastically, even as his shoulders sag in relief. “I was looking forward to being seduced.”

 

Heat pools from somewhere buried deep within Iker and rises up to his cheeks. David drags his fingers across Iker’s cheek, brushing (memorizing) the splotches of red. Iker’s surprised once again by the delicateness, the feather-light touch of his fingertips and the look of awe in his eyes. Iker wonders what David sees in him, wonders if he sees whole galaxies like Iker sees in David’s eyes.

 

And then David is moving so close Iker can’t think about anything except how it would feel if he moved a little closer –

 

David surges forward, acting on Iker’s indecision. His lips are soft but chapped, and he’s hesitant, taking his time to explore the crinkles in Iker’s lips with his tongue and the dips in Iker’s cheeks with his hands.

 

Iker wants to stay in this moment, wants to wrap it up with the palm of his hand.

 

For once, Iker lets someone else lead.

 


End file.
